


A Small Mercy

by arrow (esteefee)



Series: Mercy [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Angst, April Showers Challenge, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non Consensual, Post-Series, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-12
Updated: 2007-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victoria's back to take from him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Small Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Warning is in end notes.
> 
> [ **love_jackianto**](http://love-jackianto.livejournal.com/) made [this amazing cover](http://arrow00.com/dropbox/SmallMercyFanart.jpg). Please [comment](http://love-jackianto.livejournal.com/45901.html) at her posting.

The next time she came to him, there were no games, no tricks. No elaborate plots. Fraser awoke tied to his cot, Victoria bending over him and already beginning.

Beginning to take.

///

He'd been uneasy all day, flutters of black tattering the edges of his vision. He thought it was a migraine coming on—he'd had them sometimes when he was younger, sometimes so badly he'd had to pack snow against his temples, against the back of his neck.

But the pain never came. Just distraction, and more jerking to see shadows that weren't there, until Ray lost his temper and told him to _get his head out of his Mountie ass,_ which was quite rude, if justified.

Dief agreed with a contemptuous snort, and it was too much, really, so Fraser told him he could go home with Ray and indulge in pizza and other poor habits and leave him in peace that night.

In the Consulate, which seemed colder than usual, he hurried to clean up the last of the paperwork—left unfinished so he could join Ray on stakeout—and then ate a spare dinner of rice and legumes. His tea tasted...odd. He washed his dishes and took to his office room to read a little before lights out.

As he drifted into sleep, a familiar scent teased at him, making his heart go strange for a beat before settling.

He dreamed of her, and then she was there, above him.

///

She didn't speak. He was grateful for that much, because her voice was her most deadly weapon. Her silence was either a small mercy, or a punishment.

Fraser pleaded with her to release him. "You don't want to do this, Victoria."

She ignored him, biting at his neck, his chest; arousing him with her hands, her mouth, and he blushed with shame, straining at his bonds. He might have given her this, had she asked; but the fact she was taking, _knew_ she could, effortlessly, in spite of his helplessness, was a bitter pill.

She made him swallow it. She swallowed _him_ , sucking him to full hardness, and then rose above him. The condom she deftly slid onto his erection was either another mercy or sheer practicality. She then rode him, used him for her pleasure. Not once, but twice her body stiffened, small slivers of moans escaping her lips, her hair tumbling about her shoulders.

He didn't climax—imagined it would be impossible to do so, but she moved down again, her pale skin whispering softly against his, and she stripped off the condom and took him once again into her mouth.

He fought it. Fraser thought perhaps it was his only chance to retain any part of his pride from the encounter. She must've sensed his resistance, because she rose again to suck at his nipples, to bite them, scoring the skin on his chest with her fingernails, using the vulnerabilities he had revealed in their past encounters, bringing him unbearable pleasure.

He clung at the edge for a long time. Her mouth at last returned to him, hot, demanding his release. He bit his lip, then his own tongue, the pain focusing him, pulling him back from where she was trying to drag him.

"Bastard." It was the only word she spoke. She reached up, gripped the base of his throat tightly, pressing hard on the arteries there. Then her teeth closed about him, painfully sharp, and he cried out hoarsely and lost himself to the shadows within.

///

Fraser awoke stiff and aching. His hands were free and went immediately, fearfully to his genitals. He was intact, mainly. Blood had crusted around the head of his penis. He shivered and rose to pull on his long johns, abandoned on the floor by his cot.

The remains of the coarse rope trailed from his wrists, which he'd injured in his struggles. He disposed of the rope and showered hastily, keeping the water cold so it wouldn't sting too much on his wounds. He scrubbed himself hard.

Then he applied his usual unguent, panacea for all the injuries he acquired in his daily work. He touched himself only dimly, barely feeling his own flesh, which was strangely numb.

Afterward, he sat on the edge of his cot and stared at the wall until daylight came.

///

Ray was impatient with him that morning. He snapped his fingers in front of Fraser's face to get his attention, then made a sound of disgust and took back the case report Fraser had been trying unsuccessfully to get his eyes to focus on for the previous half-hour.

"You forget your Wheaties this morning or what? You're being a space cadet, Fraser."

"I'm sorry, Ray, I—" Fraser cleared his throat, feeling the irritation of the high collar brushing the marks on his neck. He was grateful the signs were all hidden, but the wool chafed against his skin every time he moved his head, and pulled constantly at the gauze hidden beneath his sleeves.

He was relieved Diefenbaker was still at Ray's apartment, where he was safe. Fraser couldn't bear to face him, anyway; couldn't even lift himself from the chair Ray had so thoughtfully provided and walk the eight steps necessary to enter Lieutenant Welsh's office.

But he must. He must report her. Must at least alert the lieutenant to her presence in his city. She was Wanted. A known felon. She was dangerous.

So dangerous.

He must tell Ray. Ray could be in danger as well. Fraser threw his head back, staring at the ceiling in an effort to control his sudden desire to moan out loud. When he dropped his eyes again he caught Ray staring at him; or, more precisely, at his throat. Fraser made a fist by his side, restraining the urge to lift his hand to the bite just under his collar.

Ray's eyes rose to meet his, and there was a smile on his lips, but a shadow tainted his gaze.

"Well, guess that explains the lack of sleep." His grin widened artificially, cracking his face. "So, so, so. Getting a little busy there, Frase? Who'd-a thunk it?"

The heat that rose in Fraser's face was deeper than embarrassment; it was pure shame. But when Ray chuckled a little roughly, Fraser was grateful, for once, to be misunderstood.

"So, who is she?" Ray tilted his chair back on two legs, his feet swinging to maintain his balance. "That girl at the plant shop? She made a real point of asking me if you had a green thumb."

Fraser cleared his throat. "I don't know what you're talking about, Ray. But, if you'd excuse me a moment—" He stood and fled to the restroom.

The water poured clean over his hands, and he splashed it over his face, again and again, ignoring the trickle that dampened the bandages at his wrists. The cool of the water made the burning cuts on his throat and chest suddenly intolerable, and he retreated to a stall, locking it carefully behind him before removing his belt, his lanyard, his tunic. He hung them on the hook set in the door and removed the vial of ointment from his holster.

The smell, familiar, was a balm to his senses, though others had complained in the past of its peculiar odor. Ray, in particular, had found it 'stinky.'

Fraser liked the stink. It reminded him of Quinn, and Fraser smiled faintly, remembering patient lessons by the campfire. Life was simpler then, though he hadn't recognized it at the time. At the time, he was a welter of confusing pubescent emotions, striving toward manhood.

Obviously, he was still striving.

He applied the ointment and hurried through straightening his attire. After one last check in the mirror, he swiped a telltale glisten from just above his collar and re-washed his hands.

When he returned to Ray's desk, Ray lifted his head, his nose crinkling. Fraser barely had time to panic from the expression of recognition on Ray's face before he heard Lieutenant Welsh's voice behind him.

"Constable. I'd like a word with you in my office."

Fraser turned smartly, obeying with some semblance of relief flooding his stomach.

Welsh's expression was troubled, grim, telegraphing terrible reluctance. Fraser stood at attention, the door firmly closed behind him.

"Fraser, I don't know exactly how to tell you this, so I'm going to lay it out for you straight—"

"I know, sir."

The lieutenant's mouth snapped close before he said tensely, "What's that?"

"That she's...that is, Victoria Metcalf has returned to Chicago, sir."

Welsh sighed and leaned back heavily, his hand going to his forehead. "And how is it you are in possession of this particular piece of information, Constable? And, more importantly, why is it you've chosen not to share it with the rest of the class?"

Fraser's cheeks heated. "Sir, I was about to do just that. I was having...that is, I had intended to just when you called for me."

A weak explanation, but Welsh's doleful eyes seemed to soften in his craggy face. "And just how did you find out?"

"She...visited me late last night. I'm sorry," Fraser scrubbed his eyebrow, and then pressed his knuckles momentarily against his forehead before continuing, "That's a lie, sir. The truth is, she—I suppose the correct term is—she...assaulted me last night."

Welsh let out a low curse and averted his eyes. "Are you all right? Not injured?"

"Yes. Yes, of course, I'm fine." Fraser rushed on, "I realize I will have to...file a complaint." Dread choked him.

Welsh looked up at that. "That won't be necessary, Constable." There was something pitying in his eyes, and Fraser had to look away.

"But it's standard procedure—"

"Fraser. Sit down for a second."

Fraser obeyed, moving to the couch against the wall.

Leaning across his desk, his fingers splayed flat, Welsh said in a very even voice, "Victoria Metcalf was found dead this morning in a park off of West Garfield."

Fraser's chest locked, his pulse pounding strangely. "What?" There was something terribly wrong with his voice.

"She was murdered. The guys down at the 7th already have the perp in custody. Apparently the same guy who called it in. He's confessed."

Fraser tried breathing. In and out. But it seemed impossible. And there was this painful twisting in his gut—he told himself it was grief, but it wasn't. It felt like guilt. For the overwhelming relief he suddenly felt. He could barely turn his mind toward sympathy, toward proper human compassion for a women cut down in her prime. He was despicable, really.

"Constable!"

There was a hard hand on his shoulder, there and then swiftly gone, and then Fraser heard Welsh's heavy stride toward the door to his left, and Ray's name being called.

"What, Lieu?" Suddenly Ray was crouching beside him on the lieutenant's couch. "Fraser? What's up, pal?"

"Kowalski, I want you to take the good Constable home. He's had a little bit of a shock. Fraser?"

Fraser lifted his head. It felt heavy. "Yes, sir?"

"I'll need you to go in to the 7th Precinct for a statement tomorrow. Talk to Detective Kale, all right?"

Fraser nodded numbly. Of course. They would want to establish exact time of death. Nail down the case.

"Take care of him, Kowalski." Welsh's voice was kind—too kind.

So was Ray's hand on his elbow as Fraser allowed Ray to help him to his feet.

 _She's dead. Victoria is dead._  
  
///

Ray was unwontedly silent in the car. Fraser was grateful. His head felt stuffed full of cotton batting. When the car stopped, he got out obediently, only to discover Ray hadn't brought him to the Consulate, but to his own apartment.

Fraser couldn't find it in himself to argue, so he bent his head and walked in and up the stairs. Ray's tread echoed nervously behind him, then Ray took the lead and passed him in the bend of the hallway to open the door.

When Fraser entered, Diefenbaker jumped up from the couch and began to trot over, only to halt abruptly and bend low with his forelegs straight, a dark growl starting from his throat. His teeth gleamed white.

"Dief," Fraser said, shocked out of his stupor. He heard Ray's startled exclamation behind him.

Diefenbaker's growl rose, and he lowered further, eyes glaring. Ray moved tensely to Fraser's side.

Understanding came slowly to Fraser dim mind. "It's all right, Dief. It's over."

Dief sniffed loudly and shook his whole body in denial. The growl increased in volume.

"I swear to you, Dief." Fraser bent to one knee. Diefenbaker was still tensed as if to pounce, or to bolt. "She's dead, Diefenbaker. She's dead."

Fraser heard Ray take a breath even as Diefenbaker rose and edged forward cautiously, the fur on his neck still bristling. Fraser kept absolutely still, his hands down at his sides as Dief made a low whining sound and nudged at Fraser's chest, at his collar, before lapping once at his neck.

Fraser sighed with relief and laid one hand lightly on Dief's head. Diefenbaker pressed into it for a long moment before butting his hand away and moving to sit in front of Ray. Dief made a quizzical sound and lifted one paw before dropping it.

"What does he want?" Ray asked. His voice sounded shaky.

"He's apologizing," Fraser said heavily. "For engaging in threat behavior in your territory."

"Oh, hey. That's okay, mutt." Ray dropped down beside Fraser and offered his hand. "No harm, no foul."

Dief bypassed the hand to swipe a lick across Ray's cheek and ear, and Ray wiped it off, for once making no comment.

The adrenaline burst had left Fraser shaky and tired, and he couldn't seem to rise from his knees. But that wouldn't do. He pressed his palm to the floor and pushed. Halfway up he felt Ray's hand on his arm again, helping.

"You mind telling me what this is all about?" Ray's voice was subdued, as if he were afraid of hearing the answer.

And well he should be. How messy life had become. Fraser preferred the march of even rows and neat lines. Victoria was dead. She was dead, and that was the cleanest line of all.

There would be no need to swear a complaint, to take pictures, to probe for reasons or motive. Her motive had died with her. There would be no pursuit, no tearing of his soul in an effort to maintain the right, to do his duty.

"Fraser, buddy. Jesus. You're shaking. You gotta sit down." A nudge. "Right over here, okay? C'mon." A gentle drag on Fraser's arm, but the lingering soreness in his shoulder caused him to stiffen, to gently pull away and walk of his own volition to the couch.

He had been granted a reprieve. No, clemency. He was free.

"Victoria Metcalf is dead." He said it out loud, testing it. It sounded horrible. Not wonderful. Not merciful.

Yet, it was.

"Who's that?"

The shock of Ray's words brought Fraser's eyes open. But there was no question in Ray's voice. He looked as if he knew exactly...ah.

"Who, indeed."

"Why don't you take of your jacket, stay a while, Fraser? I got tea. I got _lots_ of tea, which I don't need to tell you is plain crazy for me. But there it is." Ray's voice faded as he stepped into the kitchen. "What we got—Lipton, we got green tea, Earl Gray, oh, and here's something: 'oolong'. What the heck is an oolong? Ooooolong. Huh."

"That will be fine, Ray." Fraser smiled a little. His face felt like it was cracking.

"Yeah? You want oolong?" Now Fraser could hear Ray smiling, that secret smile of his that he often disguised as irritation.

But Fraser couldn't play his part, couldn't commence a mind-numbing lecture on the origins of oolong— _camellia sinensis_ , his mind whispered—because his soul was fractured between guilt and grief, mercy and loss. His cuts burned. Her lips had—her teeth—

White as snow.

Heat bumped against his shoulder. Ray's warmth pressed beside him.

"Got the water going. Shouldn't take too long."

"Thank you, Ray."

"So, ding dong, the witch, right? Right? I mean, c'mon, Fraser. We see a lot of people every day get a much rawer deal than her. And some of them don't grow up to be murderers and frame people and shoot their wolves. Jesus, she shot _Dief_."

"Yes, Ray. You knew that. You read the case report."

"No, I mean, yeah—I read the report. But that was before I knew who Dief was." Ray leaned over and put out his hand. Diefenbaker rose from beside the dresser with a yawn and trotted up to butt his head against Ray's leg. Ray gave Dief's ruff an ungentle shake. "She's gone, Dief. Caput. Good riddance, right?"

Fraser appreciated what Ray was trying to accomplish. _Wizard of Oz_ reference aside, it was a time-honored male tradition Fraser had observed again and again among police officers. _You're better off without her. Wash your hands of her. Good riddance._

But Fraser didn't feel those things; he felt a hollow burn, an ache that rose with heat along his neck. He realized his fists were clenched. He was... _furious._ Enraged.

"Whoa, there, buddy."

Fraser couldn't. He shook. He trembled with it, wondering at its source even as the blood pounded in his temples.

_She's dead. She's gone, and I'll never be able to—_

He wanted to wring her neck.

"I need to—I don't know how she died. I need to know." His voice was quavering wildly.

"Okay, okay." A small touch on his arm, and then Ray was back in the kitchen, talking on the phone. Fraser didn't try to overhear; instead, he laid his head back, trying to quell the murderous urge in his hands, in his throat. He tasted bile.

Ray returned with his light step, and then a cup of warmth was pressed into his hand. "Oolong."

Fraser was holding his breath. He could only nod.

"Welsh says gunshot wound to the head."

Fraser winced. It was fast, then. Victoria was truly dead, and beyond the reach of either his justice or his mercy. He was spared making a dreadful error on either side.

He took a sip of his tea. It was good, quite good. Steeped just right, with a touch of honey and milk. Fraser opened his eyes and looked directly at Ray for the first time since entering the apartment. Since Welsh's office, in fact.

The blue eyes were crinkled in concern, and there was a dark divot between Ray's eyebrows.

"I'm all right, Ray."

"Yeah, huh," Ray delivered flatly. "What was the deal with Dief? How did he know—?" Ray's voice cut off abruptly, and the divot deepened. "Did you _see_ her? Before?"

Here it was. "Yes. Last night, she—" But he couldn't say it.

Now Ray's mouth dropped open, then his eyes narrowed and moved to Fraser's neck. Involuntarily, Fraser raised his free hand to the mark that was already hidden, and Ray's eyes widened, fixed on Fraser's cuff.

"Shit." Ray leaned forward. "Give me your jacket. Take it off."

"No." _No._

"Fraser."

"No, Ray."

Ray licked his lips and looked away. He rubbed at his face and then sat silently for a while. Fraser didn't relax. It wasn't over.

Finally, Ray sighed and said, "You know...there isn't a thing I wouldn't do for you, buddy. So, I gotta ask—are you in trouble?"

"T-trouble?" Strange thoughts flashed through Fraser's brain. _Trouble_ as a quaint euphemism for pregnancy. The poor, despoiled virgin. He coughed out a brief laugh.

"Are you? In trouble?"

Suddenly Fraser realized what Ray was implying.

"I maintain the right, Ray," he pointed out gently, although he felt a faint twinge of hypocrisy. "At least," he amended, "I try to. Often, I fail. But I would never—"

Ray raised his hand. "Naw, I get that. I just meant you could be implicated." He shrugged. "And I'm not working on a lot of information, here—"

"She came to me late last night when I was asleep." Said quickly, it could be done. "She had drugged my tea, I think. She then...she...she left, afterward. The man who killed her this morning confessed."

Ray didn't remark on the gaping hole in his testimony. Ray sat rigidly, staring down at Fraser's wrist. Covered, it was covered. There was nothing to see. Under his shirt, the bandage on his chest tugged at his skin with each breath.

"Fraser..."

_No._

"Take off your jacket." Ray's voice was hoarse, pressured with some emotion.

Suddenly furious, Fraser lurched up, the warm tea spilling over his pants. Uncaring, he put down the cup and tore at his lanyard, his belt, tossing them onto the coffee table with a heavy thump. He lost momentum at the buttons of his tunic, and slowed to a stop, his back to Ray.

"Why?" Fraser asked.

Ray sounded upset, frustrated. "Because partners means buddies, Frase. And buddies means...telling. Showing. And if you don't get that, we're in big trouble. Because...I can't help if you won't let me."

But how could Ray help? Fraser was beyond help, had always been, as much as Ray tried. Victoria was dead, and Fraser was glad. Ray was alive—too alive—and the same pitfall awaited him. Mercy, duty...how could he do his duty if he weren't partnered with Ray?

His hands continued, heedless of his confusion. He dropped his tunic on the floor and turned, conscious of the obvious marks on his throat, of the gauze on his wrists, exposed below the cuffs of his Henley.

Ray's eyes didn't drop, didn't look. They held his calmly as he waved at the sofa. "Have a seat."

Relieved beyond words, Fraser sat. Ray picked up his cup and contemplated it. "You need a top off. Be right back." He grabbed Fraser's tunic on the way and draped it across a chair.

Fraser was alone with his thoughts, cooling in the curtained light. The tunic had really been too hot. It was for the best. Even if Ray knew—there was no telling how much he knew, but he knew at least that Victoria had tied him. That she had bitten him.

He must know that Fraser, a man and a Mountie, had let himself be—

Well. He'd seen Fraser falling apart just now. It was all one, anyway.

"Here." Mug in his hand again. He curled his fingers about it, lifted it, and took a sip. It eased his throat.

"Thank you, Ray," he forced himself to say.

"No problemo. Me, I don't get the tea thing. I mean, I know it has caffeine, which—no point in drinking it otherwise. But it doesn't have that kick, you know? That back-of-the-throat thing."

"Well, of course, tea lacks the caffeol containing the chlorogenic acid that probably provides that, er, kick..."

Ray smiled, a quick twist of his lips, and Fraser found himself relaxing slightly.

"Did you know, Ray, that coffee was banned in Ottoman Turkey in the 17th century for political reasons, and was associated with rebellious political activities in Europe?"

"Why, no, I did not, Fraser."

Fraser smiled, finally. Ray matched it.

"I knew there was a reason I liked the stuff."

"Indeed, Ray."

"Maybe you should drink it more."

Fraser sighed. The tea was warm in his belly. Ray's regard was kind— _Ray_ was kind, as much as he liked to sport a porcupine's bristles. As much as he barked at the world.

Victoria hadn't been kind.

"I'm glad she's dead," Fraser whispered.

There was silence, and in spite of everything, some part of him shriveled at his base lack of compassion, of good will.

"Me, too," Ray said slowly. "And I didn't even know her. But maybe I didn't need to—everything she was, I learned about from what she did, Fraser. And she did wrong. Lots of wrong."

"Yes." Fraser sighed again. "Yes."

"She hurt you."

_Yes._

"And now she can't no more."

And that, truly, was the crux of it.

"She's lucky she's already dead, I'll tell you that," Ray muttered darkly.

Fraser closed his eyes, suddenly more exhausted than he'd ever been in his life. He felt he could lay his head down and never raise it again. He felt Ray take his mug from him, and then a gentle push on his shoulder.

"Why don't you take a nap, huh?"

"I'm—my boots. My uniform," Fraser said. It seemed a tremendous burden to keep his eyes open.

"I got it." And Ray did. He knelt and unlaced Fraser's boots. Fraser unzipped his pants and then paused, heat rising along his throat.

"Could I importune you for a pair of pajamas, Ray?"

"PJs?" Ray laughed a little. "Don't think I've got 'em. I'll get you some sweats, how's that?"

Ray disappeared. Clumsily, Fraser pulled off his boots, letting them drop to the floor, one, then the other. He slipped his pants down past his hips, and was trying to unlace the cuffs by the time Ray returned.

Ray helped him. Fraser was a man grown, and in perfect health, so he didn't understand why he needed help removing his pants. But Ray was patient, silently pulling them off his feet.

He shook out the sweatpants and started to lift Fraser's foot into the leg. Fraser jerked, and couldn't withhold a gasp.

Ray froze, his fingers still around Fraser's ankle. Fraser's wound burned. It felt hot under Ray's touch.

"C'mon," Ray said at last, shifting his grip to Fraser's foot. His voice sounded tired as well. Perhaps they both could use a nap.

Ray fought the sweatpants up Fraser's legs, and then Fraser took over, easing them over his hips. They were tight, and warm—perhaps too warm, but he needed them. He couldn't very well walk around Ray's apartment in his boxers.

"Okay, nap," Ray directed. "Nap, then pizza. And you, wolf—"

Diefenbaker raised his head with an interrogative noise.

"—You keep away from the turtle. I know you two got a thing, but she's way too young for you. Plus, there's the whole different species problem. Don't overlook that."

Fraser felt like smiling, so he did. The sofa was comfortable, just long enough to stretch out on. Better padding than his cot, really.

"Thank you, Ray." Fraser opened his eyes when the words escaped, and caught Ray looking at him with odd tenderness before his face snapped into its usual, wry expression.

"No problemo, buddy. That's partners."

"Yes." He was so fortunate.

He heard Ray traveling around the apartment, dropping the mug in the sink, locking the door—one deadbolt, two, and the chain.

Fraser's eyes closed, and he started to drift. He jerked once, a touch of cold on his face, like a snowflake.

No, he was here. Not in his cot, but on Ray's sofa. And safe.

He was safe here. With Ray.

Fraser let go, and slipped into the merciful dark.

  
............................  
2007.12.12

**Author's Note:**

> Minor character death. Non-consensual biting, bondage, sexual assault. She's not kind to him.


End file.
